


A Quiet Affair

by JokerzPrincezz



Series: The Quiet of 221B Baker Street [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftercare, Chastity Device, Cock Cages, Demi!Sherlock, Fluff, Hyperspermia, It's All Fine, Light Bondage, Love, M/M, Overstimulation, Prostate Massage, Prostate Milking, Red Pants, Red Pants Monday, Sexual Experimentation, They should probably discuss this stuff more first, bi!john, its fine, new relationships, top!Sherlock, unconventional D/S themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 11:43:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17642144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JokerzPrincezz/pseuds/JokerzPrincezz
Summary: Sherlock and John have been together three months. It comes as a surprise to no one, especially John, that the genius has a never ending list of sexual exploits he wishes to explore with his first lover. And honestly, when has John ever said no?





	A Quiet Affair

**Author's Note:**

> Written and edited quickly  
> un-beta'd, un-Britified (? It's a word now, don't expect proper British slang. I'm just a southern girl with a hobby and a deep frustration that this will never be cannon even though it's been a ship SINCE LITERALLY THE 1800'S)  
> Please talk about these kind's of things more before engaging. Make sure you and your partner are clear on what will happen.

“No.” John didn’t even look up from his laptop, tapping away rapidly at his key board.

“Why ever not?” Sherlock asked from the couch, affronted. John lightly rolled his eyes.

“Because you can’t possibly be bored yet, we _just_ got home last night, I’m still bloody exhausted, _and_ I’ve not finished writing up the case yet. Also, I know damn well that Lestrade left you a whole crate of old cold cases.”

Sherlock huffed and turned over on the couch, curling into his usual pouting position. John sighed in fond annoyance before looking up at his flatmate/best friend/ lover.

“What did you want to try?” Sherlock turned quickly, his eyes lighting up evilly.

“I got a parcel the other day.” The younger man said smugly. John groaned and tilted his head back, glaring at the ceiling.

“What _kind_ of parcel?” John finally asked. Sherlock just smirked, standing smoothly, stepping over the coffee table and leaning on the desk, running and hand through John’s hair.

“I believe they call it a cock cage?”

“Fucking Christ.” John breathed, his eyes shutting for a moment, a spark of arousal going through his body.

Ever since the detective and his conductor of light had entered into a physical relationship some three months ago Sherlock had created an ever-growing list of experiments. Almost nothing was off limits for the ever-curious consulting detective. He had tied John down with silken ropes three weeks ago and spent the better part of a day muttering to himself as he detailed every mark on John’s body. After spending nearly two hours cataloging his front, Sherlock had laid between his legs and spent a languid amount of time getting John hard.

Long white fingers had gently tugged and prodded at John’s half hard cock, the fingers felt more like a feather across his skin, touching so gently… The other hand gently tugging and rolling his bollocks in impossibly large palms. John had breathed out softly, twitching as he felt himself fill out more fully. Sherlock had made him cum with just two fingers that day, just slowly jacking him, the barest amount of friction, warm lips kissing John’s thighs, his bollocks, a tongue swirling between the head of his cock and his foreskin… Sherlock had used the lubrication from John’s precum to slick up his fingers and press cruelly against John’s prostate as the older man came.

When John opened his eyes, Sherlock was leaning over him, eyeing him. A hand lifted from the desk and gently laid over John’s crotch.

“That’ll have to go.” Sherlock muttered, almost to himself, his brow furrowed. John just nodded absently, rising when Sherlock reached up to cup his face.

“Right… right.” John nodded back, allowing himself to be led to their bedroom. (He had convinced Sherlock to move his experiments into John's old room, a proper lab for the idiotic genius. There was now a small ice box filled with body parts and mold samples in the corner, beakers, and strange liquids lining tables and shelves. There was a frumpy armchair in the corner of the room, looking so out of place amongst the lab which looked like a mad scientist’s wet dream. Sherlock would wander in, sometimes absently tugging John along with him. He would be so engaged in whatever experiment he was working on that he seemed to forget John’s presence, or so the ex- Captain thought initially. He realized his mistake rather early. It was the second time Sherlock had dragged John into the lab, after half an hour of watching Sherlock work John had turned to go back down stairs. He caught Sherlock’s mouth turning down in a moue as he closed the door. The next day the arm chair mysteriously appeared. Now John would drag his laptop with him, typing away as Sherlock puttered around, muttering to himself.)

In the bedroom Sherlock gently pushed John back on the bed, a long leg coming up, foot wriggling gently over John’s crotch. John just let out a harsh breath and shuttered, not moving his hands from where they lay against the bed spread. After a moment Sherlock seemed satisfied as he stood again and turned to hang up his dressing gown.

“Clothes, John.” Sherlock said, smiling slightly as he slipped off his shirt.

John “hmm’d” for a moment before his mind caught up and he tossed off his top, bending to work on his shoes. Using the opportunity Sherlock wandered into their closet, opening the black trunk that was tucked against the wall in the back. He opened the latches on the false top and pulled out their favorite ropes, the soft braided red ones, and the cage which he had carefully cleaned and sterilized the day before. When Sherlock returned John was left in nothing but his red pants, face down on the bed.

“Knees, John.” Sherlock said lightly, leaning to place a gentle kiss on the exit wound scar on the soldier’s shoulder.

John shuffled onto his knees, supporting himself on his forearms, hands gripping the headboard in anticipation. Sherlock licked his lips for a moment before looping the rope through the slates in their head board, tying John’s hands loosely. The older man could easily get out, if he wanted. But he wouldn’t. Once John was situated as Sherlock liked he pulled the red pants off the older man slowly. These where Sherlock’s favorite, he could never resist the man in these… Sherlock indulged himself of a moment and leaned in, licking John from his bollocks to his coccyx. John hummed in pleasure and wriggled gently before stilling. He was completely hard now, and that just wouldn’t do.

“I’ll be back.” Sherlock said, standing and running his fingers through John’s short locks.

“'kay.” John breathed softly, turning his head to catch Sherlock’s wrist, laying a small kiss on pale skin.

Sherlock returned a moment later with a bag of frozen peas. John, who had been looking very comfortable and peaceful just groaned and buried his head in the pillow.

“Seriously? Can’t you just… finish me?” John whined. Sherlock gave him a look, the _stop being an idiot_ look.

“That would skew the data.” The younger man stated, the “ _obviously_ ” was unspoken.

It was cold, bloody fucking, pissing cold. John hissed as the ice-cold peas met his crotch, his whole body jerking back as far as the ropes allowed, toes curling. Sherlock was having none of it, his hand came up to John’s lower back, steadying the older man. After a few minutes, (read, excruciatingly agonizing eternity for John) the peas left, and John was almost positive that his cock had damn well crawled into his body. Medical logic be damned. Then Sherlock was there, his hands almost painfully warm, fitting a metal cage over John’s prick. John just huffed and grunted in annoyance as Sherlock worked. It took another five minutes but eventually Sherlock was done and stepped back, admiring his work.

John was surprised when he heard Sherlock walking away and looked over his shoulder in annoyance as his lover opened their bedroom door.

“Oi! I know you’re not leaving me tied up like this Holmes?!” John snapped at the younger man. Sherlock just threw a smirk over his shoulder and walked out. John was about to sit up and bite at the ropes to dislodge them when he heard Sherlock shuffling around in the lounge. Sighing in annoyance, John decided to relax and see what the genius had in store this time.

A few moments later Sherlock returned, a silver instrument in hand, it took John a second, but he recognized the toy as a prostate massager. His face lit up bright red.

“Wait a second, you didn’t say anything about…” John trailed off, gulping. Sherlock gave him his most innocent look.

“It’s just an experiment John. I wanted to see how much sperm you could produce this way. It’s a bit difficult to measure the amount you produce when it’s on me or in my mouth. Besides, you always get so wet when engage in coitus, I have a hypothesis you produce more amount of sperm than the average male.” All of this was stated so matter-of-factly, and really, when had John ever denied Sherlock anything? The ex-army doctor groaned and buried his head in the pillow before exhaling and relaxing.

“Fuck, fucking fuck, fine, yes, ok fine.” John huffed in exasperation. He could almost feel Sherlock’s face lifting into a wicked grin behind him.

Sherlock slipped onto the bed behind his lover, hands running up and down John’s sides soothingly. John relaxed marginally second by second. His shoulders slouching, the small pinch in his bad shoulder loosening, John sighed and relaxed down onto his forearms, ass raised a little higher. Sherlock hummed appreciatively and placed a kiss on the small of John’s back before reaching blindly for the bottle of lube they kept by the bed. Soft kisses and small sighs of pleasure quietly filled the air as Sherlock gently set about stretching the doctor. It hardly mattered how many times they did this, John always seemed so tight, as if he couldn’t possibly take anything into his body. They hadn’t yet penetrated Sherlock, the younger man somewhat anxious about how tight John’s body was every time. Even though John always felt so good around him, and even though John always seemed to lose himself in pleasure, he was still a bit hesitant. John was understanding, and though he wanted to take Sherlock desperately, he was still more than happy to run at Sherlock’s pace. If Sherlock never wanted to be penetrated John could live with that. It was a small price to pay for finally being with the man he loved. And besides, it was certainly no hardship on John’s sexual satisfaction. Over the last few weeks Sherlock had taken every opportunity to practice his technique, finding new ways to make John squirm. He had become intimately familiar with John's favorite positions, the ones where Sherlock pressed gently against his prostate on every thrust. The gentle pressure would drive John mad, light enough to not provide enough stimulation for orgasm, yet providing a sense of fullness unlike anything John had felt in a very long time.

When Sherlock had managed to slip in two fingers, he began to gently press around John’s prostate. John gasped in pleasure and curled his toes, pushing back slightly. It felt… so strange. John felt his prick trying to stir, giving minuscule twitches, but unable to engorge.

“Hmmm… perfect John. Look down. Look.” Sherlock breathed. John whined, rubbing his face against the pillow, sweat slick on his skin. Finally, he looked down between his legs.

“Oh, Fuck, fucking hell.” He gasped.

His prick was an angry red color, pressing against the slates in the metal cage. He was dripping cum. He’d always produced quite a bit of precum, though with most of his partners it went unnoticed as he had mainly slept with women and took care to get them more than prepared. He had been told that his oral skills where much appreciated by many of his past lovers, Sherlock among those numbers. It had been amazing to watch the genius torn apart, face open and honest, all defenses dropped. John moaned at the memory and the sight of his own prick weeping cum onto their bed spread. He’d have to get Sherlock to change the sheets ( _It’s your bloody turn Sherl, we agreed, if you want to experiment like that you have to clean up after!_ )

The feeling was awful, awful and wonderful. By the time Sherlock had three fingers relentlessly rubbing against John’s prostate, the older man was a writhing, sweating mess. Gasps, whimpers, and grunts fell unbidden from him. Sweat clouded his vision, knees shaking. The pleasure never increased, there was no building of tension, no release on the horizon. It almost made him beg, a line he tried to avoid crossing, even though he knew it made Sherlock dizzy with pleasure to break the strong soldier down.

Sherlock smirked behind the man, slicking the prostate massager loudly.

“Fuck, Sherlock, how, how much longer?” it wasn’t begging. It _wasn’t_ , John tried to reason, it was only asking a question.

“Take a deep breath John, you’re still so… so wet.” John whined low in his throat when Sherlock reached forward. Long fingers swiped over the tip of the cage, collecting the still plentiful string of cum.

“Sher- Sherlock.” John gasped, a spasm running through him as the prostate massager entered his body. After a moment the steel toy rested against him firmly. It wasn’t large enough, it didn’t fill him the way Sherlock did, it wasn’t warm either.

“Brace yourself for me.”

“Wha- what?” John gasped, turning his head, trying to see what Sherlock was planning. A moment later he cried out. His shoulder gave out, his legs shaking as the toy inside him began to buzz. His vision whited for a moment, god there was no _end_. This could go forever, he wasn’t hard, he wasn’t cumming, he wasn’t, god John wasn’t _anything_. He felt so sensitive, goosebumps breaking out as a breeze made its way across his skin. It wasn’t, it was too much. It took him a moment to realize he was babbling, and that Sherlock was holding his hips up, pressing and twisting the toy in his body.

“Oh god, it’s so much, fuck, fuck, Oh god Sherl, I can’t, oh, oh god, please, please-” he broke himself off in a whine. It was too much suddenly, crossing the line from intense to painful. He cried out, his whole body tensing before letting out a dry sob into the pillow. The toy turned off instantly.

“Shh, there there” Sherlock stroked his side, large hands gentling John, pulling him back from the precipice. The toy was extracted gently, John whining all the time. Sherlock’s gentle hands massaged his own, until the doctor could finally relax them. Sherlock took his time untying John’s hands, rubbing his wrists, restoring proper circulation. He turned John over slowly, before straddling the older man and carefully undoing the cage. John whined pathetically, then cried out. When he was freed his prick immediately began to rise, curving against his stomach. Sherlock ran a single finger down his length and John cried out.

“John, do you want me to-“

“Fuck, fuck Sherlock yes, yes please!” John cried, he reared up, his muscles still felt like jelly, but his body was singing with overstimulation. He wasted no time in sinking back on Sherlock’s own length. Sherlock’s cock was perhaps as red as his own, and so, so _warm_. Oh _god_ , so warm. Sherlock groaned, hands running gently over John. He wasn’t good at this part, putting John together after. He tried in between breaths to warn John that the orgasm would be intense, more so than usual, or so the research Sherlock had done suggested. But John was snarling and groaning, his fingers leaving indention's on Sherlock’s shoulders, and honestly, good god, the genius couldn’t bloody _think_.

John rode his lover relentlessly, ruthlessly, taking his pleasure from Sherlock’s body, though at this point it was less pleasure and more relief. The older man was still crying (though he’d argue it was just sweat) and the position he was in hammered his lovers’ cock against his prostate brutally. Flailing slightly, John grabbed one of Sherlock’s wrists in a grip that was far harder than intended, inevitably leaving a bruise across the pale skin, and dragged the hand to his prick. The touch was too much, but not enough. It was only two more strokes before John cried out, collapsing atop his lover and convulsing with the first dry orgasm of his life. It was strange, a release of the tension finally, but he almost felt like there was a burn inside him, the lack of semen felt odd beyond belief. He sighed before finally relaxing against Sherlock, still shaking.

Sherlock’s arms came up and cradled John gently as he rocked slowly into the doctor. John just whined, but his body stayed pliant and warm in Sherlock’s grasp. It wasn’t long until Sherlock found his release, gasping quietly into John’s hair. They lay for a few moments, Sherlock just holding John, hands running down his back, fingers rubbing softly against the exit wound in John’s shoulder. John just let out quiet hums of pleasure, sighing softly when Sherlock had finally softened enough to slip out of him, a small trail of semen in his wake.

They bathed together after, Sherlock washing the older man gently. John didn’t think he’d ever be used to this part of their coupling. He was so used to being the care taker, _he_ usually was the one who doted on Sherlock, making sure the younger man ate regularly and didn’t ignore his “transport”. This whole post coital peace had been something Sherlock was similarly uncomfortable with at first. Though the genius claimed to be a sociopath it was clear that Sherlock had simply lived a life of isolation. Connections didn’t come easy, and with that came difficulty sharing his emotions. This though, this seemed to calm both of their minds. Sherlock didn’t have to speak, he didn’t have to make eye contact or expose himself mentally, he just moved his hands, touched gently. It wasn’t clinical, per say, more ritualistic. A repetition, a routine, something Sherlock had never had before John. It was nice, in a way, to be able to just move, his mind slowing but not stopping. Sitting in the warm water with his lover slowed the constant stream in his head, sometimes he would even have revelations about himself, or a case, and spend a few moments just holding John while he made sure to cement the new ideas in his mind.

John knew this, he honored and respected that this time was as much for him as it was for Sherlock. It gave Sherlock time to collect himself after having so thoroughly exposed himself emotionally. John found out after time that it was best to be silent in these moments. Sherlock, though he took on the “dominate” role in these encounters, was still exposed like a live wire when they finished. A wrong move, a too harsh demand could hurt both of them, John realized that very soon after their first time “experimenting”. John wasn’t sure what it was about Sherlock’s never ending stream of curiosity (which was certainly not limited to non-carnal arenas) that made the other man feel so raw, but they found a balance quickly. John’s body, war-torn and, admittedly, not as young as it used to be, reveled in the simple pleasure of the quiet intimacy, non-sexual, just relaxing, bringing him back from the strange place he often found himself after their experiments. He felt almost as though he was floating on a cloud, and the quiet reassuring presence and touches of his lover gently brought him back into himself. Some nights Sherlock would need more care than him. After the bath had gone cold, they would shuffle into the lounge or back into bed, and Sherlock would curl into John. On the couch he would lay his head on John’s lap, facing the older man’s stomach, blocking out the world with the sound of John’s breathing, and the smell of him. John would lean back, resting his eyes, one hand lay on Sherlock’s waist, just a steady presence, and his other hand would card through wet curls until they were dry.

The next morning, they would both have come back to themselves, the quiet domesticity a blanket of calm until the phone rang. Then both men would grin at each other and dash for their room, throwing on clothes hastily, tossing undergarments and shirts to one and other effortlessly.

Life in Baker Street was good. They tried not to think too hard about tomorrow, or Moriarty, or the many enemies they had acquired. Instead they just simply enjoyed their time together, a quiet promise of “ _forever_ ” hanging unspoken in the air.


End file.
